


Rescue Mission

by rachelrose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Airplane Crashes, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Multi, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5861383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelrose/pseuds/rachelrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alright, everybody – we all just need to <i>calm</i> the <i>fuck</i> down!” The shout reverberates piercingly, sending echoes throughout the vast woodland and over the endless expanse of sea.</p>
<p>“I concur with John – it is <i>essential</i> that we endeavour to be rational about our predicament.” Sherlock sounds far too casual about the whole situation.</p>
<p>In the distance, the view of the sea fades into the horizon, making it impossible to discern where the sea water ends and the night sky begins. There's no other word for it: endless. The sea is endless, the fear is endless, the trees are endless, the thoughts are endless (surely, there are dozens of synonyms for the word 'endless,' but none of them feel quite as appropriate in this instance).</p>
<p>Or, the one where Sherlock and his friends are in a plane crash and end up stranded in the middle of nowhere. They drink miniature bottles of alcohol and make a mockery of chess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rescue Mission

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I wondered, "what would happen if we took all of the characters from Sherlock and threw them on a stranded island?" From that, this story was born. In all honesty, this story wrote itself.

“Alright, everybody – we all just need to _calm_ the _fuck_ _down!_ ” The shout reverberates piercingly, sending echoes throughout the vast woodland and over the endless expanse of sea.

“I concur with John – it is _essential_ that we endeavour to be rational about our predicament.” Sherlock sounds far too casual about the whole situation. The group looks to him, taking in the figure before them: dishevelled but somehow still full of grace, with his hands clasped behind his back, cold, piercing eyes analysing his surroundings, and a smug smirk splayed on his features.

In the distance, the view of the sea fades into the horizon, making it impossible to discern where the sea water ends and the night sky begins. There's no other word for it: endless. The sea is endless, the fear is endless, the trees are endless, the thoughts are endless (surely, there are dozens of synonyms for the word 'endless,' but none of them feel quite as appropriate in this instance).

 

* * *

   
  
The world is spinning, and Sherlock's mind is bereft of all of its prior clarity. The aforementioned is replaced by a grand amalgamation of sensations, all resulting in mass hysteria: there's panic, a sharp inclination to vomit, mental scrambling, ringing in the ears, and tempestuous, all-consuming terror. The scene is punctuated every few seconds by loud, clamorous noises, including beeping from the cockpit, screams from the passengers, glass shattering, metal bending, people falling, and air whooshing in through the door as the aeroplane loses altitude.

When John grips onto Sherlock's forearm for dear life, the rest of the world disappears around them. John looks into Sherlock's panic-stricken eyes and mirrors his expression as he mindlessly threads their fingers together, holding Sherlock's hand like it's the last thing he'll ever do. Sherlock gives John's hand a tight squeeze, communicating everything he can in the last few seconds that they have before they inevitably collide with the fast-approaching landscape below.

_I'm sorry._  
_Forgive me for wronging you._  
 _You're the greatest person I've ever known._  
 _You're the only person ever to accept me for who I am._  
 _You would've been the world's best father._  
 _This is all my fault._  
 _It's always my fault._  
 _Forgive me, John._  
 _Forgive me for being me._

John lets out one last triumphant sob, a mix of adrenaline and agony crossing his features. It's the last thing Sherlock hears before his whole world goes black.

 

* * *

 

 

> _Moran and his men have me hostage. Egypt. It's a trap.  
>  Bring a battalion, and wear something splendidly tight._
> 
> _I've missed you dearly, Mr. Holmes.  
>  After you come to my rescue, let's have dinner._
> 
> _– The Woman_

The words that grace the screen of Sherlock's phone burn an image into Mycroft's memory – and not a particularly pleasing one, at that.

“When did you receive this?”

“Less than an hour ago.” Mycroft massages his brow, sighing deeply, as his brother snatches the phone from his open palm. “It's not from her number, but it's definitely her.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She included that last line so as to verify the source of the message. It's an inside joke between us, of sorts.”

“How could she have possibly gotten hold of another person's mobile during her so-called imprisonment?”

“Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex.” Sherlock mocks his brother's characteristic shit-eating grin. “Oh, brother dear – we both know how skilful The Woman is concerning manipulation, given her craft. I'd hardly consider Moran's men to be more than just a batch of well-trained idiots passing as experts. I shudder to think that Miss Adler would find it difficult to get them wrapped around her finger, though I'm sure you'd rather not learn the details of such endeavours.”

Mycroft's intended smile comes out in the form of a grimace. “I cannot expend such resources – I cannot risk losing so many men – just to save the life of one wretched Woman.”

“But alas, dear brother – I haven't brought this to your attention simply to ask that you save her head. It's also a brilliant opportunity to eliminate the remaining strands of Moriarty's web.” Mycroft stares at him intently, motioning for him to continue. “Surely they'll all be gathered there – what, with there being so few of them – and that gives us the chance to take them all out in one go.”

Mycroft gives Sherlock a steady look. “How do you suggest we go about handling this? It's risky, Sherlock. More than I think you could possibly comprehend.”

“All I need from you is transport and a few generous government allowances.” Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I'll gather my own team.”

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock comes to, he's underwater.

The catastrophe unfolding around him is muffled by the sea, and for a few moments, Sherlock just lies there, not caring about the searing pain in his lungs telling him to come up for air. Though he uses those few precious moments to steel himself, nothing could have possibly prepared him for the scene he enters when he resurfaces.

He takes in his surroundings – a shallow lagoon not far offshore, adjacent to a cluster of jagged rocks. _There were eight other people on board, including the flight attendant and the pilot._ Sherlock counts the people around him, only seeing three all together.

He scrambles to the person closest to him, less than two feet away. The man – the pilot, he realizes – is floating on his back, gasping for air as he fights to remain conscious. Sherlock feels a pang in his chest when his gaze drifts down the man's torso, resting on the morbid image of a large piece of shrapnel sticking out of the man's abdomen. Sherlock kneels at his side, cradling the man in his arms. _Early fifties, two children and a wife, pilot for over thirty years._ He notes the ID badge pinned to the man's chest pocket; the badge reads, “Captain Arthur Carlisle.”

“Captain? Captain – can you hear me?”

The man convulses in Sherlock's arms, shuddering as his eyes flutter shut. He quickly jolts, his eyes opening wide as his hand comes up to grip Sherlock's shirt. “ _Oh, please, dear god, please don't let them die -”_

And with that, the man goes limp.

He has no pulse, and he's stopped breathing.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is unsure how much time has passed – he just knows that he's been frozen in place here, on his knees in the shallow lagoon, clutching this dead man to his chest. He's shivering from the cold, and his hearing is temporarily in remission. He just stares out onto the horizon, watching the sky as the sun slowly begins to descend.

It could be hours or mere minutes before Sherlock is snapped back into reality. He feels a warm, sturdy hand on his shoulder, and through the sharp ringing in his ears, Sherlock hears the distinct intonation of John's voice.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, bloody hell, are you alright? Come on, you can't go into shock now! We're fresh out of blankets!” John chuckles awkwardly at his own reference. “...Sherlock?”

Sherlock is pulled back to the present at the sound of his name; he looks around frantically as the corpse unceremoniously falls from his arms into the water. Sherlock rises to stand on wobbly legs. He whirls around to face John, standing with outstretched palms at his sides. He scans John's body for signs of injury. _Gash on the left cheek. Otherwise, relatively unscathed._

John doesn't question – he sees the body in the water. He's had enough years in the army that he's capable of recognizing when a soldier has died in another soldier's arms. He knows that – however socially stunted Sherlock may seem to be – he feels helpless about it. John knows not to say anything. He just pulls his friend into an embrace and holds him there, not offended when he stiffens and doesn't hug him back.

Sherlock can hardly process what's happening. His brain is in overdrive, but when he tries to recall the events that led up to this point, he can only focus on minuscule, unimportant details. He remembers the faint purple marks underneath Lestrade's eyes (in the corners just by the bridge of his nose), suggesting severe sleep deprivation. He remembers the impression in Anderson's hair that meant that he'd slept on his left side the previous night. He can remember the look in Molly's eyes – sheer, blinding terror – before she fell unconscious in midair.

“John?” Sherlock's voice is hoarse when he speaks, and he suddenly feels the searing pain characteristic of inhaling salt water. Until now, it's been shrouded by the adrenaline taking over his body via his bloodstream.

“Yeah.” It's not a question; it's more of an agreement, or maybe an affirmation, even. _Yeah, this is happening. Yeah, I'm here. Yeah, he's dead. Yeah, I know._

And in that moment, something falls into place in Sherlock's mind. Like a light switch, his mind is turned back on – this time fully functional. He blinks a few times, not having realized that his eyes had been heavily lidded. He sniffles and clears his throat, running his hands through his wet hair and letting out a heavy exhale. He runs steepled fingers over his salt-swollen lips, as he desperately tries to grab hold of the reigns.

“John, hell – are you alright?”

John pulls back and looks into his friend's eyes, and sees nothing of the despair evident in his voice. “I'm fine, you _tosser_.”

“And the... the others _?_ ”

“All okay, relatively speaking. A few are pretty beat up. Just... I could use your help, no matter how rubbish a nurse you are. Let's get you up onto dry land, yeah?”

Sherlock just nods and follows John as he trudges through the water toward the shore.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“How long? Since the – the, uh... the thing.”

“Twenty minutes at the most would be my best guess. Everyone's out of the water – no thanks to you, you _prat.”_ John looks back to smile at Sherlock, but he doesn't return the gesture.

 

* * *

 

The location of Moran's operation in Egypt, Mycroft learns, is an abandoned warehouse that sits in the middle of a shipyard. There is little security on the perimeter and minimal surveillance all around, but every person inside the building is armed and well-trained. According to a reliable source, Irene is heavily guarded at all times of the day, but her handlers have become more and more lenient with her. In fact, many of them have fallen victim to her charms – which is, incidentally, how she got a hold of one man's mobile to contact Sherlock in the first place.

With this information, Sherlock devises a plan, and has his team on one of Mycroft's private jets to Egypt in under 24 hours.

Sherlock chooses his team carefully: he needs himself, obviously, and John – a skilled marksman who works brilliantly under pressure. He brings Lestrade as well – if not for his strategic skills, then for his knowledge of criminal behaviour – along with Donovan and Anderson per Lestrade's demands (he believes them to be competent and well-trained – bollocks, in Sherlock's opinion). The one unexpected member of the team is Molly Hooper, whom Sherlock asked to come along for her medical skills (should John be otherwise incapacitated) and to put her in the position of the backup surveillance person sitting in the white van one mile away, communicating through discreet earpieces and making sure “the coast is clear.”

Upon storming the warehouse and taking down all but Moran and two of his men, Sherlock comes to Irene's rescue, undoing her binds and wrapping her half-naked body in his coat before scooping her weeping figure into his arms and carrying her to safety.

With that, the team packs up and boards the private jet, homeward bound.

Sherlock's plan almost goes off without a hitch.

_Almost._


	2. Naraka

When Sherlock first reaches the shore, the first thing that he's alerted to is a piercing wail.

The source of the scream is a woman who's being restrained with great force by both Anderson and Lestrade. The woman, small and shaped like an hourglass, looks physically unscathed. John and Sherlock both run to her aide, and John bats Lestrade away, taking his place at the woman's side. Sherlock recognizes her as their flight attendant – one that Mycroft must have hired for her, erm, _assets._ She's a beautiful young Indian woman, whose normally long, billowing hair is a mass of dishevelled knots, and whose usually dark brown irises are shrouded by the dilation of her pupils. Her name tag reads: “Indira Kaur.”

Sherlock kneels in front of her and in a surprisingly calm voice, he says, “Miss Kaur? Miss Kaur, are you alright?” Her wailing ceases, but her snivelling continues as she looks at Sherlock with panic in her eyes. “My name is Sherlock. We were on a private jet and it crash-landed. You're okay. Everything is going to be alright.” She clenches her eyes shut, shaking her head, wringing another choked sob as she tries to lean forward and bring her arms against her chest. “Miss Kaur, do you know where you are?”

In one loud, triumphant burst of terror, she cries out, “ _Naraka.”_ John hushes her, rubbing her forearm reassuringly.

Sherlock turns and rolls his eyes, groaning, “Please, dear _god,_ tell me that there are some sedatives on hand.”

John looks to him in disbelief. “ _Sherlock!_ What the hell? We can't just... _sedate_ her!” Sherlock grumbles and shrugs. “Why would we? If she's just having a panic attack, it should die down eventually.”

Sherlock actually has the nerve to laugh. “No, John, she's not having a panic attack. She's in a deep, possibly irrevocable state of shock. She thinks she's in hell.” Lestrade and Anderson join in with their looks of disbelief. “Oh, for _god's sake,_ ” he says as he rises to his feet, brushing the sand off of his knees. “' _Naraka'_ is the Hindu equivalent of hell.”

With that, John decides it best to sedate her temporarily. He gives her a nice dosage of Diazepam to knock her out for a while (and upon waking, she should be quite a bit more relaxed).

When his attention is no longer on the flight attendant, Sherlock notices that Lestrade is still sitting on the ground next to John, leaning back on one arm and clutching the other to his chest, a pained expression on his features. “Greg?” John asks, leaving the woman to sleep peacefully on the ground with an aircraft pillow supporting her head. “God, why did you have to do that? You could have made it so much _worse -”_

Sherlock interjects, “Have I missed something?”

“No, not really. It's just that the Detective Inspector here dislocated his shoulder, which I said I'd take care of when I came back with you. But then, being the hero that he is, he just _has_ to throw himself at the damned flight attendant to restrain her!”

“Someone had to do it!”

John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, come here, I need you to hold him down while I set his shoulder.”

“Why couldn't you have asked me?” Anderson asks, thoroughly offended that John would actively seek out Sherlock to help him when he was so readily at his disposal. “I'm completely fine. I could've restrained him!”

“Anderson, you've been a far cry from 'fine' since before we first met.” Sherlock sighs at John's _not good_ look, disregarding it completely – as he usually does. “Now, please do shut up – your shrill tone isn't helping the ringing in my ears.”

John blinks in his direction, but turns away, quickly getting to work on setting Greg's shoulder while Sherlock holds him down. “Anderson,” John calls out, grabbing the man's attention, “if you want to be helpful, fashion him a sling. He needs one, and I don't have the time to handle that right now.” Anderson nods, content at being given a task to see to.

 

* * *

 

When John and Sherlock get up to leave a subdued Lestrade behind, John jokes, “You've always been such a rubbish nurse.” The two share a laugh, followed by a comfortable silence, as Sherlock follows John across the beach. “It's mostly to do with your awful bedside manner.”

Sherlock asks, “Where's Dr. Hooper? She's a medical professional, shouldn't she be helping you?”

John looks to him and swallows, eyes wide. “Molly... well, Molly's not exactly in a state to be playing Field Nurse right now.” Sherlock knows that John uses 'gentler terms' when he's trying to explain something that makes him terribly uncomfortable.

“Well? Is she alright?”

“She's just... you know what? Just follow me. And – bloody hell – if you have even the smallest bit of sense in you, you won't say anything. Not a word – do you understand?” Sherlock nods.

Through a small layer of trees, on a bed of green forest flooring, Molly sits half-naked with her knees drawn up to her chest, rocking forward and backward (not in the lunatic-locked-in-a-closet-and-hearing-voices kind of way, but more like a dancing-on-the-edge-of-a-panic-attack-but-trying-to-hide-the-damage kind of way).

Next to her, propped up with her back against a tree is Irene Adler, who sits with one leg out straight and the other bent at the knee, supporting her arm. She, too, is half-naked – in nothing but her skimpy underthings – but that's hardly anything new. Compared to her usual attire, this is verging on decent.

On the other side of Molly lies Sergeant Donovan, completely still save for the steady rise and fall of her chest. As John and Sherlock draw closer to the group, Irene singsongs, “John, dear, I think our lovely little Molly here may need stitches.” Sherlock suddenly picks up his pace, walking faster toward the source of the sound. When he appears through the trees and sees the three of them sitting there, he takes inventory of everyone's state: _Donovan is unconscious, for some reason, Irene must have an injured foot – no, ankle, by the looks of it, and Dr. Hooper – for God's sake, what's wrong with Molly?_ Upon further inspection, he sees that Molly is clutching a bloodied piece of cloth in one hand. When she lifts her head, expecting to see John standing there, Sherlock catches a glimpse of what Molly _really_ looks like in her most vulnerable state.

At the realization that it's Sherlock standing before her, Molly hastily wipes away her tears with one hand, while patting at the massive gash that stretches from her forehead onto her scalp. John brushes past Sherlock to kneel at Molly's side, murmuring comforting things – but Sherlock notices that he's afraid to touch her. He gets up and mumbles something like, “Don't move, I'll be right back,” before darting off back into the woods. Sherlock doesn't know what to do; he moves directly in front of her and kneels, placing one hand under her chin to lift her head so he can see her face. She's wrecked – she's been crying non-stop for a long while now, her eyes red and puffy from constant wiping. She looks at him, fear evident in her eyes, and he reflects back something entirely guarded, but equally as fearful. He moves his hand from under her chin to take the cloth from her grip. Tentatively, his left hand takes her previously occupied one, while his right moves slowly to dab at the gash on her forehead. At the contact, Molly squeezes his hand, and he has just enough mind to squeeze hers back. Secretly, the touch makes Molly feel even more panicked. They sit like this until John returns.

“Oh John, please save me. I think I'm drowning in all of the unrequited romantic tension,” Irene whines dramatically. This rips Sherlock from his reverie and John laughs in return, handing Irene two small pills and a bottle of water.

“Take this – it's codeine, for the pain. I'll make you a splint shortly.” Irene nods in response, happily popping the opioid pills. John redirects his attention back to Molly, and Sherlock stumbles backward out of the way. “Thank you, Molly, for coming so prepared. I didn't think to pack half of the things you did, and now, because of you, our flight attendant is blissfully sedated, and both Greg and Irene can enjoy a good night's sleep, despite their injuries. Well done.” She blushes, averting John's and Sherlock's gaze. John approaches her, asking her to lay her legs flat and sit upright. Sherlock doesn't understand why this takes so much effort out of her – not until she unfurls herself and reveals a large, devastating burn spanning the left-hand side of her abdomen and the underside of her left forearm. With her uninjured arm, she braces herself on the ground, closing her eyes and wincing at her movements.

John injects the area around the gash on her forehead with some Lidocaine before proceeding to give her several stitches to stop the bleeding. Her face stays resolute all throughout John's ministrations, and for that, Sherlock is very impressed. When John's finished, he forces her to meet his eyes, then says, “Molly, I'm going to have to take care of those burns. Now, I'd _like_ for you to lie down, having two bruised ribs and all -” Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise: _bruised ribs? Really? How could I miss something like that?_ “...but I know nothing would pain you more right now than adding more irritation to those burns. So, I need you to let me clean and dress them. I won't lie; it's going to hurt quite a bit. Can I give you something for the pain?”

She shakes her head. Her voice shakes violently when she speaks. “No... no, I'm f-fine, John. I'm fine.”

“No, you're not, Molly. The only reason you're even conscious right now is because you're in shock. That's the only thing protecting you from the pain. The second that that wears off, you're going to be in agony, and I'd like to prevent that as best as I can.”

She gulps and nods. With that, John pulls two more small pills from his pocket – he anticipated having to coerce her into taking them – before snatching the water bottle out of Irene's hand. He hands the pills to Molly along with the water, and she hesitantly takes the medication. They decide to wait for the drugs to kick in before cleaning and dressing her wounds, and in the interlude, John turns to Irene and asks, “Has she moved yet?”

He's referring to Donovan. “No, she's been out since you dragged her over here.”

Other than a cut on her lip, Sherlock can't see any real damage to Donovan's body. John huffs and massages his brow. “I'm not so sure that she's going to make it, and I can do jack shit to help her.”

“What's wrong with her?” Sherlock asks, having stayed silent up to this point. John almost forgets that he's there.

“She err... her neck was hurt in the crash. She's alive though – breathing on her own – but still unconscious. Unless help arrives soon, I'm afraid she may not have much time left.” Silence falls upon them, and Sherlock notices that nightfall is fast approaching. John turns to Molly, asking if she's ready, and she responds to him in a whisper that Sherlock can't make out. John turns to him and asks, “Sherlock, would you mind leaving us here for a bit? Maybe go check on Greg and Anderson?” Sherlock nods, understanding what he really means. _Molly doesn't want me here. She doesn't want me to watch her fall apart. She doesn't want me to see her cry – to see her when she's suffering._

Sherlock rises to his feet and turns on his heels, walking away for a short while until he is out of view. Moments later, he hears Molly's agonizing, blood-curdling scream, and he can do absolutely nothing about it. He stands there and waits for the cries to settle, taking comfort in just barely being there for her. When the scream fades, another one echoes through the air, louder than the first, before dying off and leaving another in its wake. This process repeats so much that Sherlock feels that he is beginning to go deaf, so he decides to leave to help Anderson in his efforts to make a fire on the beach.

Sad as it is, it's the best that the two of them have ever worked together. In truth, they have no energy left for disdain or seething remarks. Instead, as they work cooperatively to gather supplies and make a fire, a solemn air hangs about them. For once, neither of them says anything.

 

* * *

 

As he sits in front of the roaring fire, gazing into its depths, Sherlock continues to hear the echoes of Molly's agony resounding amidst the trees. As much as he tries to drown out the sound of her cries, they still manage to pierce his senses. And, as a result, he can't help but think of her.

He harks back to one of very few times in his life when he felt truly afraid. He recognizes how, in his moment of need, Molly was the only one there to pick up the pieces. When he staged his death, it had been Molly who instrumented the whole ordeal. She handled all of the preparations, and she executed the act to a tee. She managed to find a corpse to take his place in the morgue and in the DNA database – so that when it came time to do the autopsy, the man on the table would be a confirmed match for the DNA and the dimensions of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly took him home to her flat as well and gave him somewhere to stay – just until the chaos died down and he could duck out of London unnoticed. Not only did she give him somewhere to stay – she gave him _her_ bedroom. She slept on the couch for the few weeks after the incident, not complaining once about a sleepless night or an achy back. She wasn't upset when Sherlock spent entire days locked away in her bedroom, doing whatever is was that he did in there, resurfacing only to use the toilet and to eat every so often. She didn't force him to eat like John had; she did, however, prepare a meal every single evening, with enough food for two. That way (whether Sherlock wanted to eat or not) there would always be something ready for him, so he wouldn't have to put forth any effort to make himself something to eat should he “decide” that he was hungry.

Molly didn't pry, and she didn't ever really make an effort to initiate conversation – and for that, Sherlock was quite relieved. Neither Sherlock nor Molly were ever good with small talk, so the end result would most definitely be disastrous. She didn't fuss or argue when he left – when he said that he'd return, someday, but didn't know when that day would be. Sure, she fumbled with her words quite a bit and made a fool of herself in front of him – that much didn't go away even after spending weeks together in her flat – but that hardly mattered. When he said something hurtful (and let's be honest, that was just an inevitability) she just shrugged it off.

And he knew that his words _did_ affect her, yet she never showed it. She never showed the pain or the guilt or the sorrow that she felt, yet Sherlock could hear her muffled cries when she locked herself in the loo at night. She always managed a smile whenever they made brief eye contact, yet Sherlock could see how she truly felt – stressed and emotionally exhausted – underneath her convincing façade. She hid it from him, _for_ him. She hid all of it – even her wit, her courage, her bravery – but why? Was it because she felt ashamed of her feelings? Was she saving him the trouble of having to face her? Was it because she was afraid that he'd think her a coward?

Sherlock quickly dispels that train of thought, not wanting to address the reason why it made him feel so strongly.

Things have hardly changed between them since the whole Magnussen debacle – she remains an awkward, clumsy, anxious mess in his presence, regardless of everything that they've been through together. She never lets her hurt show; she feigns a smile in response to everything he says, even when his words are particularly hurtful. After the day that Molly slapped him thrice across the face – shouting at him, being the only one with enough guts to stand up to him – Molly hasn't had another outburst of that nature (though truthfully, Sherlock prefers the audacious Molly he met that day – her usual demeanour is so awkward and forced that it makes him cringe). And Sherlock hasn't changed much toward her either. Why should he? He treats her as he would treat any other distant acquaintance of his – with mild tolerance and little acknowledgement. Still, she's (cloyingly) sweet and helpful – always eager to assist him, however she possibly can – and Sherlock, to this day, is hardly ever grateful to her i


	3. Checkmate

It's a truly glorious sight to witness the mighty Captain John Watson – Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s _bloody_ Hospital – triumphantly marching out of the tree line, with Irene Adler ( _The_ Woman) in a bridal carry, their figures lit only by the flickering light of the fireside. The Woman, in all of her licentious glory, with her arms hanging loosely around the doctor's neck, is the most accurate definition of a “damsel in distress.” She's wrapped in a blanket in John's arms, her long legs dangling off, leading to bare feet – one of which is dressed in a very sturdy splint. Her head lolls back, her eyes shut in what looks like a state of drugged bliss, and her hair is wet and unruly where it hangs from her head.

As John approaches the group of men gathered around the fire – namely Sherlock, Greg, and Anderson – irritation is apparent on his features. He looks like Sherlock does when _this is all so very tedious._ If John were to say what he's thinking, Sherlock believes he'd say something along the lines of, _“I'm so fucking done with all of this shit.”_

“John! We were just finishing off the rest of the miniature bottles of alcohol from the plane and feeling sorry for ourselves. Won't you join us?” Lestrade is far too enthusiastic for Sherlock's liking (and for Anderson's liking as well).

“No thanks, Greg – as tempting as that sounds.”

“Well if he won't indulge, I sure as hell will,” Irene calls out across the fire, holding her hands up as if to catch something.

Lestrade grabs a tiny bottle and tosses it over to Irene – but before it can reach her hands, John snatches it out of the air. He chuckles sarcastically. “Uh-uh, no way. Narcotics and alcohol don't mix.” He looks at the bottle thoughtfully in his hand, ignoring Irene's dramatic pout. “Oh, _sod it_ ,” he grumbles, twisting the cap off of the bottle and downing half of it in one sip.

Anderson speaks up, asking, “Err... Where's Molly?” _Of course,_ Sherlock thinks, w _hat he actually means is, “Where's Sally?”_

John's eyes widen before he responds, “Oh, yes, right – well, Molly is with Sally... Sergeant Donovan. She uh, she wanted some time alone – to compose herself – and really, after what she just endured, it's understandable. She'll come 'round when she feels up to it.”

Sherlock frowns at him. After a short interlude in which the lot of them are all busy moping, Sherlock clears his throat and mutters, “I'll be back.” He hops up onto his feet, brushing himself off. When John shoots him a questioning glance, he elaborates, “I need to take a walk. Too much noise –“

“Sherlock, none of us are even speaking aloud,” John chides.

“No, but you're all thinking so very loudly. I'm going to take a visit to my Mind Palace, and for that, I need Radio Silence.”

John rolls his eyes in response, deciding it best to give up arguing. “Right then. Off you go.”

Irene looks to Sherlock dreamily as he sulks off toward the treeline, taking pleasure in seeing him in his dishevelled state – jacket, coat, and scarf abandoned long ago, with his top two shirt buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showcasing his magnificent arms and dexterous hands. She sighs wistfully, “ _oh_ , that man...”

 

* * *

 

He truly never meant to end up here. He really _had_ intended on taking a stroll to clear his mind – to calculate probabilities in his head – but his feet apparently had other plans. Before he knew it, he found himself here, where he can hear the nearby sounds of Molly's muffled, choked sobs, alongside her laboured breathing. He does have the mind, however, to keep his distance, while still being within earshot. For some reason, the sound of her cries is rattling his insides – like the grating, murderous sound of an alarm clock, or the relentless, repetitive clicking of a pen, or the sound of static on the telly – and he wants nothing more than to placate the incessant, disconcerting noise that he can't get out of his damned head.

He thinks better of it. _She wanted to be alone. She_ asked _to be alone. There's no way that she'd care to see me right now._ So, instead of approaching her, he leans his back against a tree and slowly sinks to the ground. As he finally gets a moment of respite, all of the physical and mental exertion of the day hits him all at once, like a bus, and he can hardly keep his eyes open any longer. He doesn't want to sleep – no, he _must_ stay awake.

_Why must I stay awake again?_

 

* * *

 

“Anything you need, Sherlock. As usual, I'm at your disposal.”

He cocks his head at her. “But I haven't even asked anything of you yet.”

“But I know what you look like when you're about to ask a favour of me.” He stays silent, giving her a questioning look. “Oh, _come on_ – like you think I don't notice? You come in here with your – with your forced smiles, and your sideways compliments, and your bloody charms, knowing I'll... knowing I'll give you anything you ask for. Always – _always_. I may be naïve, and I may be hopeful, Sherlock Holmes, but I'm no fool. I've known you long enough now to expect nothing less.” Tension hangs in the air as Molly composes herself, wiping all traces of anger from her features and replacing them with something softer and altogether completely false.

“... Feel better now?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Right, okay, so...”

Of course, when Sherlock asks her to tag along on his little mission to Egypt, she says yes. She'll _always_ say yes to him. He could ask her to be his human shield, and she'd _still_ say yes – focusing not on the gunfire aimed toward her fragile body, but instead on the fact that she gets to stand close enough to Sherlock to bask in his body heat.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock awakens, the sun is just beginning to rise. He jerks himself up to his feet, and when he hears a steady murmur that doesn't belong to Molly, he moves toward the sound. He finds himself right near where Irene, Molly, and Sally were situated last night. From afar, he can see Anderson sitting with his back to him at Sally's side, holding her hand tightly. Anderson is muttering his thoughts aloud to her unconscious form, audible to Sherlock, though Anderson is completely unaware of his presence.

_“It's okay, you'll be fine. Someone will be coming to fetch us soon, just you wait.”_ He laughs a bit hysterically (as in maniacally). _“If there were ever a time for Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson to save the day, it'd be now.”_ Sherlock stiffens at this. _“But they can't do anything, can they? They're stuck here, just like the rest of us. Sitting ducks. But Mycroft will come looking for us, for sure. Not long now.”_ He continues muttering to her – more to himself than anything, Sherlock realizes – at which point Sherlock decides to return to the group.

As he approaches the treeline, he hears shouting from several parties. When he discovers what's actually transpiring on the beach, he's a bit confused, to say the least.

“No, come on! That's not fair!”

“That's Checkmate, I'm afraid.”

“No. I absolutely _refuse_ to lose to you.”

“Oh, give it up, mate. That way, I can just add you to my tally of how many men I've bested.”

Irene is sitting comfortably, having added a tee shirt to her skimpy ensemble, across from a visibly flustered Lestrade. Between them, on what looks to be an upside-down metal food tray, is a very crude game of chess. John sits nearby, coddling the still heavily-sedated flight attendant. On the other side of him sits Molly, wrapped in a blanket with her knees pulled up to her chest. She has a look of slight amusement on her face, though what sits underneath is a bit harder to discern. As Sherlock approaches the scene, they all fall silent.

Sherlock examines the chess set more closely, noting that all of the principle pieces are empty miniature bottles of alcohol, and the pawns are all small rocks. _How much did they drink last night?_ Half of the pieces are marked on the top with a dab of dried red nail polish.

“This is a disgrace to the game of chess,” says Sherlock.

“Oi! We put a lot of effort into putting this together, alright?” Lestrade is seething.

“A ridiculously _pathetic_ amount of effort,” John adds, his tone rather flat and unamused.

Lestrade lightens up a bit. “Yeah, it took us all night.”

Sherlock asks, “You haven't slept?” He really needn't ask. He can tell. He can _see_ that neither Lestrade nor John have gotten a wink of sleep, that Molly got an hour or two at the most, and that both Irene and the flight attendant slept well.

“A few of us have. John refuses to.”

“And you?”

“I was too pissed to care for a while, and when I did try to get some sleep, I couldn't stop thinking. Is this what your head's like? Because if so, you've earned a whole new level of sympathy from me.”

“You haven't the slightest idea.” Sherlock smirks as he sits down awkwardly outside of the group. “Welcome to the world of goldfish. We meet for tea on Thursdays.”

“Sherlock is like a vampire or something. He hardly ever sleeps. I don't know if I've ever actually seen him willingly go to sleep,” John says.

“Well, as it happens, I did actually manage to get some sleep last night. Granted, I slept upright against a tree, but it's still something. I didn't really plan to – it just sort of _happened.”_

John blinks at him, as if it's the most blasphemous thing he's ever heard. Lestrade says, “We thought you just kind of... _wandered off_ to the end of the world and back or something.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” John remarks.

 

* * *

 

John and Greg eventually have to ban Sherlock from playing their chess game.

As one could imagine, Sherlock sucks all the fun out of it by taking ten to twenty minutes to deliberate each turn, and by easily wiping the floor with his opponents. He's Sherlock, after all. Irene doesn't protest, though – she just says things like, “Well, I think it's sexy,” when John and Greg start to bitch and moan. She gawks at him from across the board, watching as he thinks, quite enjoying the frustration of the other men.

When they ban him from their chess game, Sherlock relocates to a spot a few feet away on the ground, closing his eyes and reassessing their situation for the umpteenth time. Anderson returns at one point (Sherlock's not sure when, exactly – he hasn't been paying much attention) and sits on the ground, a respectful distance from Sherlock, but near enough to paint a picture of amicable association. _Wait, amicable? With_ Anderson _, of all people? I'm delirious. Heat exhaustion, perhaps?_ After a while of pleasant activities – both to numb the pain and to relieve the boredom – the group is forced to address the elephant in the room: the dreaded topic of Logistics.

John rises to his feet, standing with his arms crossed and staring off at the wreckage in the distance. He purses his lips in concentration as he tries to make out the details of the mangled cockpit and fuselage, the blessing of daylight lending a new-found clarity to his vision. The bright early-afternoon sun causes erratic glares to reflect off of the various metal and glass surfaces of the aircraft – but even with that interference, John can still make out the remnants of what was intended to facilitate their return flight home: a mid-sized business jet, now bereft of its wings and tail, leaving it in the form of an indistinguishable, battered heap of junk metal, sitting half-submerged in a few feet of water not far from the shoreline. It's ripped almost completely in two, a flimsy piece of metal acting as a hinge being the only thing still connecting the fuselage to the cockpit.

When Sherlock moves to stand next to him, John starts speaking without being prompted, and the rest of the group falls completely silent. His words are directed at Sherlock, but are intended for everyone to hear. “Well, when you were off lurking in the woods last night, we were busy salvaging what we could of the wreckage. Thankfully, nobody really brought anything more than a carry-on bag or so, so we didn't have to dig out any cargo. We landed in pretty shallow water, and with a bit of prying, we were able to access the inside of the fuselage, where everyone kept their things. I found Molly's bag and the aircraft's first aid equipment pretty quickly, so I was able to treat the initial damage.” John starts to chuckle. “I never thought I'd say this, but your brother and his bloody power complex has been like a blessing from God. He had that jet well-stocked with such unnecessary luxury items – like well-made blankets and pillows – plus a surplus of food and drinks. There were a lot of perishables, but there were other things too, like cereal, fruit, pastries, tea, and coffee – not to mention the absurd amount of juice and alcoholic beverages.”

“... He's got a chronic sugar problem. And by problem, I mean dependence.”

John laughs again. “Well, remind me to thank him later. I mean, it's not much, but there's enough water to last us about a week, as long as we're mindful. Though I'm _really_ hoping it won't take Mycroft a whole week to find us.”

“Age is making Mycroft slow,” Sherlock offers, a smirk on his face. He doesn't realize that his comment isn't exactly comforting.

“I figure we could just ration off the food, and we'll be fine. Again, we just need to be mindful of what we eat. And Sherlock -” he draws his friend's attention to him, “- that also includes being mindful of what we _don't_ eat. I know you only need to eat, like, once a week, because you're from Mars, but you need to make sure you're actually getting some sustenance. And staying hydrated. You get the picture.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, Mother Dearest.”

“You can pout all you want, but I have better things to worry about than making sure you're taking care of your own basic human needs.” John phrases it this way on purpose – when he makes it sound as if Sherlock not eating will be a detriment to _his_ well-being, he'll be more likely to comply. He'll impose on others without a single regret, but he always wants what's best for John Watson.

“Don't worry about me, John.” He attempts a reassuring smile, but fails miserably, resulting in a weird, uncomfortable grimace. When John doesn't continue speaking, Sherlock takes it as his cue.

“So,” he starts, taking a deep breath in preparation for the cumulative string of observations he's about to voice, “I'm having difficulty discerning the string of events that resulted in us crash-landing – whether it was due to weather conditions or a malfunction of the aircraft manufacturing or the like – but either way, I've concluded that it took less than an hour for my brother to be alerted to the crash. We're most definitely in the middle of nowhere, far from any civilization. There's no sight of land in any direction, so it's not likely that there would be any ports or cargo ships nearby. I assume that the radio is still intact, so Mycroft should be able to locate us fairly easily. It'll be tricky picking us up, because there's nowhere for an aircraft to land.

“From what I've surmised, he'll have to anchor a ship somewhere a ways off shore, with a helicopter to make several trips to and from the beach to pick us up. From that distance, and by gauging the necessary fuel capacity to handle several trips of that length, the helicopter will probably be able to fetch us in groups of two of three at a time. Mycroft worries about me terribly, so I'm sure he'll have assumed the worst concerning causalities. He'll probably send several medics, and there will be approximately two or three stretchers to accommodate anyone who's significantly injured. I'm sure this goes without saying, but we mustn't move Sergeant Donovan until the medics arrive with the stretchers. They'll have a wider array of equipment to treat injuries, and they'll be able to take care of her.

“All that being said, judging by the approximate distance between our location and London, and by evaluating the amount of time it'll take to triangulate our exact coordinates, gather a rescue team, and acquire transport, with Balance of Probability, I estimate that it should only take another twelve hours or so for rescue to arrive.”

The whole group had been holding one collective breath, which is finally exhaled in a sigh of relief at the end of Sherlock's tangent. Sherlock gives a mock-bow and quickly darts off, grabbing John's arm in one stride and dragging him along without difficulty. John doesn't protest – this is hardly anything new – but instead rolls his eyes at Sherlock's childishness and huffs loudly in annoyance.

Sherlock stops when they're well out of earshot from the rest of the group. When he turns to John, his whole demeanour screams “intense” (far, far more than usual in this case, which is rather worrisome). His face is set in that ominous mix of awe, excitement, and passion – not solely the good sort of awe, excitement, and passion, mind you. On the outside, his sunken eyes scream for just a moment's rest. The feverish contrast that lies beneath those heavy eyelids, however, is a set of eyes full of both wisdom and childlike wonder – one of few traits of Sherlock's that John has always envied, ever since they first met.

“John, a word?”

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I lied. Mycroft's people aren’t on their way just yet – though if all goes to plan, it should still only take around twelve hours or so for help to arrive. But I may have... _withheld_ some information, to evade sparking hysteria within the group.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it's all a bit, I don't know – _predictable_ , don't you think? I mean, think about it – _really think about it._ We were so incredibly fortunate that the pilot landed us where he did – the cockpit was left intact and the fuselage was salvageable. But think about it: when he was first alerted to the danger, we'd been steadily cruising at full altitude for, what, about an hour and a half, would you say? That rules out any notion that it may have been caused by a malfunction in the aircraft equipment, because that would've presented much earlier. And having been in flight for that long, we were a nice distance between where we took off and where we were meant to land – almost _conveniently_ so. The climate could cause turbulence, easily, but you saw what the weather was like when we landed: completely harmless. Picturesque, even. The air pressure would have to have hit record extremes to knock us out of the air like that, and regardless, the pilot would've been alerted to oncoming weather conditions well before flying blindly into the eye of it. What I find most disconcerting of all, however, is that most – if not all – of us should have been killed in that crash. Only one person has been _severely_ injured, and only one out of the nine of us died upon impact – conveniently, the pilot. He was killed before he could explain to us what caused the crash.”

“So what exactly are you suggesting, Sherlock? Because that all seems very insightful – brilliant, actually – but I'm not following. But that shouldn't really be news to you either.”

“Outside forces, John. Our plane was attacked. That _has_ to be the cause.”

John's eyes widen in bewilderment, his voice growing soft. “ _'Once you've ruled out the impossible...'_ ”

“Exactly! Now you're getting it. I figure it was Moran's doing – he escaped in the crossfire, and he probably wanted to see that we didn't get away unscathed with The Woman in tow. He's a clever one – tactical and strategic. Vengeance, retribution – that sort of rubbish.”

John makes a vague _hmph_ in agreement, nodding his head. “But, err... What could that information do to throw off your calculations, exactly?”

Sherlock looks to him with great irritation, incredibly frustrated that John can't follow his (perfectly coherent) train of thought. It's like talking to a brick wall.

“He's suggesting that Moran is playing some sick game with us. All of it was likely thought out down to the very last measure, and it played out _exactly_ how he planned it.” Molly steps out tentatively from her hiding spot behind a nearby tree, the steady certainty in her tone not matching her timid posture and her downward-cast eyes. Both Sherlock and John turn to her, immediately lending their rapt attention to what she has to say. “He left most of us hardly injured – just enough to cause immediate, temporary pain – without the pilot here to tell us what happened. There's a reason the plane is still salvageable – he wanted us to have access to the food and the supplies. He doesn't want to kill us. He wants to play god.”

Sherlock looks to her with his usual cold, calculating expression, successfully masking his overwhelming awe at her outburst. _Molly Fucking Hooper: the awkward, timid pathologist with crippling anxiety and a terribly naïve nature. Molly: the foolish yet dependable pawn. No, she's not a pawn; we've established already that she's not expendable, nor is she insignificant in any respect. Give her some credit. She would be... what, then? The Rook, perchance? Vigilant, protective, and ultimately the one looking out for the King? Perhaps. But, of course, I must resign myself from this sort of judgement, for I am not the King. I'm not on the board at all, for that matter – I'm the one playing the game._

She mumbles, almost to herself, “He could somehow be blocking the signals to and from the plane's radio – and if that's true, then that would mean that Mycroft would be temporarily unable to locate us. He probably didn't even learn of the crash until hours after his beloved private jet didn't show up on the tarmac. But even then, he'd have little to go on as to what happened, where we are, or how long we remained in flight after losing the radio signal. He'd need at least something of that nature to work with.” She looks up and shoots a quick apologetic glance to Sherlock and John, her eyes full of embarrassment and a bit of shame, before bowing her head again. “S-sorry, that was rather intrusive of me. It's not that I couldn't help overhearing, really – I was just curious, and frankly, a bit bored as well.”

“Well, I'm glad at least _someone_ here is clever enough to follow my train of thought,” Sherlock spits as he shoots John a menacing glare. But John has a smug look fixed on his face – because that's the closest thing to a compliment that anyone could ever hope to get from Sherlock Holmes (excluding the instances that involve him going to great lengths to charm someone to get what he wants). While John stands there looking smug, Molly keeps her head bowed, obviously trying to hide whatever facial expression that Sherlock may have caused her to present against her will. Sherlock, clueless as ever, stands there with his rigid posture and his hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looks back and forth between Molly and John. _What? Did I say something not good?_ “Alright, so -” he begins, before catching Molly as she attempts to excuse herself from the awkward exchange. He turns to her, asking, “and where exactly do you think you're going, Dr. Hooper?”

“I was just, erm...”

“- _staying._ You were _staying_ ,” he pointedly interjects. He looks into her eyes and waits for her assurance – a single hesitant nod of her head – before continuing. “Right. Okay, so, while we still have several hours of daylight left, I'd like to have a look around the cockpit – figure out what I can about the radio.”

“Marvellous. And I suppose you'd like me to tag along so you have something to voice your deductions to and shout abuse at?” Molly chokes down a laugh.

“Actually, John, I think that would be ill-advised; you should probably stay behind with the others, you know – just in case they need you for your medical expertise. Or your sarcasm. Either way.” John rolls his eyes in response. “Molly -” Sherlock directs his attention to her, his eyes suddenly soft, “- you've proven to be competent enough in the past, with your _uncanny_ ability to comprehend what I say and take whatever I hurl at you without giving into the urge to bring me harm. Well, mostly, at least. So, won't you join me?” His tone, Molly finds, is verging on condescending. Though mostly, he just sounds strangely polite.

“Sherlock,” John warns, “she's hurt. She shouldn't be putting any strain on her upper body – we wouldn't want to exacerbate her rib injuries, now, would we? Plus, the last thing she needs right now is to subject her burns to more irritation.”

“No, the _last_ thing she needs right now is to subject her _mind_ to more of _your_ idiotic banter and crude chess-playing tactics,” Sherlock grits, his tone vicious and seething.

Molly looks between the two of them, clearing her throat and muttering, “I – I'm okay, John. Really. It's less than a quarter-mile walk, and I can go at my own pace. Plus, you've got me bandaged up pretty well, so I wouldn't have to worry about hurting myself even more. It's not like anything but my legs will end up in the water, really, so there shouldn't be anything to worry about.” She shifts her gaze toward anything that's not John or Sherlock, fearful now that she's sounding too eager. “And if I don't go with him, who will? _Anderson?_ We wouldn't hear the end of that one for the rest of eternity. I've done it before. I can handle it.” John looks incredibly frustrated, but holds his tongue. Sherlock just gives him the most cocky grin before prancing off to ready himself for the trek, Molly following suit.


	4. Wishful Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, unfortunately. No matter; there is still quite a lot of story left to tell before this will finally be finished, so I'll make it up to you by the end (I promise).

“Oh, God,” Molly whimpers under her breath, stuffing her fist in her mouth to muffle her sobs. As she sits on the ground, rocking back and forth on her heels, the echoes of John's doctoring ring through her body, hitting every nerve ending in her extremities and every neuron under her skin. It's mostly just a panic attack left over now, rattling her insides with every convulsion of her stomach muscles and every contraction of her throat. Her skin feels like it's ablaze – and not just where she was burned. She feels it everywhere, a prickling sensation sparked by the lightest of touches. She tries to calm her erratic breathing, for the sake of her throbbing ribs, but the fact that she can't get a grip only makes the panic attack worse.

By some miracle, a while after John leaves her to her private snivelling (it could have been hours or minutes; Molly can't be sure), she falls asleep with her head propped up on her knees. She feels the warmth of Sally's presence, however unconscious or comatose she may be. She sleeps lightly for a short while longer, before finally gathering herself enough to make her way to the beach with the others.

Somewhere along the way, through the darkness in the trees, Molly finds Sherlock sleeping upright, against a tree. She realizes that he must be a heavy sleeper, because she was rather loud approaching him. She crouches down to look at him, to observe the way he looks when stress and information aren't worrying the lines on his face. His skin is like porcelain, his breathing slow and easy as he sleeps. Its a truly strange sight for Molly: to see the great Sherlock Holmes in his most vulnerable state.

Before she registers her actions, she grazes her thumb along his cheek bone and brushes a stray curl off of his forehead. He doesn't wake up. Molly decides that now is probably the best time, if she really wants to...

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," she whispers almost inaudibly. "You mad, gruesome, fantastic man." Then, she so very lightly plants a kiss on his forehead, lingering a bit too long to take in his scent. Of course, he doesn't wake up, so with a smile, Molly continues her walk to the beach.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly returns to her spot on the beach where she's currently keeping her belongings. She realizes now that she's been in nothing but her bra and knickers, wrapped in a blanket, since they first got onto the beach – her clothes having been singed in the crash, forcing her to remove them altogether. The person she was less than twenty-four hours ago would be ashamed of her: walking about, so carelessly indecent. Now, she can hardly give a damn. It's not that it's liberating, by any means, but she hasn't yet mustered up the energy to dress herself. It's painful, stretching that way. She manages to change into one of her very few dry tee shirts. It's rather big on her (truthfully, it's not meant to worn anywhere besides her bed and around her flat) but it does its job: covering her top half without chafing her increasingly-sunburnt skin or causing her to sweat. As an afterthought, Molly shimmies into a pair of denim shorts (her only pair), for Sherlock's sake, more than anything. She has long abandoned any attempt at maintaining her pristine pathologist ponytail; now, her messy, salt-water treated, wind-swept hair hangs with a certain unruly, natural grace down past her shoulders, dancing freely in step with the wind.

“Ready, Doctor Hooper?” She turns around to see Sherlock standing expectantly behind her, dressed in a tee shirt himself along with a pair of dark-wash jeans. He has a rucksack slung over one broad shoulder, and he wields a piercingly patronising smile.

“Err... Yeah, just -” She turns around and grabs her water bottle, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as it falls over her face. “Okay.” She sighs, immediately regretting her decision to tag along.

Sherlock turns on his heel and begins walking off, calling out, “Come along, Molly!”

She follows after him, albeit slowly. “I'm not running after you, Sherlock.”

He stops in his tracks as he huffs and turns around, putting one hand on his hip. He is the picture of _impatient_. When she reaches his side, he drops his annoyed expression and returns to his previous patronising smile. “Apologies,” he mutters, before beginning to walk alongside Molly at a slower pace.

They walk for a short while down the beach, sharing a comfortable, companionable silence. It's easier that way, for both of them. For Molly, she doesn't have to make a fool of herself. For Sherlock, he's not forced to follow bothersome social customs – though, then again, he's never really had to do that with Molly.

“Hold on – just a moment,” Molly says, stopping for a moment to gather her breath. Each heavy intake pains her ribs, but she desperately needs the oxygen. “Sorry.”

“No, please – take your time. Take as much as you need; I don't mind.” Molly is surprised by the softness in his tone. “You should sit.”

“Yes, but then, I'd have to get back up again.” They laugh and Molly hisses in pain, realizing too late that laughing probably isn't the best idea.

“Sit, Miss Hooper,” Sherlock urges, falling to his knees and dropping his rucksack on the ground in front of him to dig for his water bottle. He shifts to sit with his knees bent in front of him, looking up in hopes that Molly will follow his lead.

Molly stifles some agonizing sounds as she slowly sinks to the ground beside him, grasping at her chest as she slowly regulates her breathing. She expects him to say something – either relevant or otherwise – but he says nothing, for once.

 

* * *

 

 

Trudging along the shore quickly becomes painful for Molly, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do. He _does_ think to offer to carry her – but when he remembers the placement of her burns and contusions, he concludes that that would only exacerbate her injuries. Walking through the water is even more difficult; even Sherlock breaks a sweat.

_"Molly-"_

"I'm _fine._ "

Sherlock halts and gives her an _'are-you-fucking-kidding-me'_ look. Molly sighs and stops as well, her head drooping in exhaustion. She's ahead of him, and she doesn't turn to face him. She rolls her shoulders forward and back to release some tension. Sherlock persists. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Acting like you're not in pain. You're an awful actress, Molly. It's trivial and infantile, and I don't know why you feel the need to hide your feelings from me."

"I'm really, _really_ not."

"I've been shot. I've had broken ribs. I've been burned. Even one as controlled as I cannot evade the inevitable physical _pain_ that comes with those injuries. I think I have some idea of how you must be feeling, and you don't have to hide that – not from me."

She turns to face him. "It's just -" She huffs. "I'd rather not draw attention to myself when others are hurt worse than I am. _They_ deserve the attention and the sympathy. There's nothing more that John can do for me, really. I just...” She averts her eyes, as Sherlock's stare begins to burn. “I don't want my weaknesses to show."

 _Now we're getting somewhere._ "Right. And why not, pray tell?"

"Wailing like an idiot because I'm in pain makes me look like a coward, especially to a group of people who just barely survived a plane crash."

"You are _not_ a coward, Molly Hooper. And letting your pain show doesn't make you one either." Silence drifts between them for a few long, awkward moments. "Come here," he says, gesturing to his side. Carefully, Sherlock wraps an arm around her back, gripping her shoulder, while coaxing her other arm to wrap around his neck for support. He holds Molly's hand steady as they walk, and she's using Sherlock as a crutch. It takes a lot of the weight off of her, making the trek more bearable.

"Thank you," she mutters, after several long minutes of silence.

He looks down and gives her a very forced, pained smile, hoping that the gesture is a sufficient response. He doesn't know what to say – _really_ not his area.

Molly chuckles – giggles, even – and it's like a chorus of angels' music to Sherlock's ears.

 

* * *

 

 

“John...” Mary begins, trailing off. She sighs. “Do I even need to lecture you about how daft this whole 'plan' is?”

John bows his head, ready for the onslaught. “I _know –_ “

“No, look at me. _Listen._ It's not about Sherlock losing you, or even about me losing you, for that matter – no, that's not what this is about. I know that I have no right to ask this of you after – well, you know. But please, do whatever it takes to make sure that you come back to me in one piece. This isn't about us anymore – it's about our daughter. Our daughter, who will be here in less than 5 weeks.”

“I _always_ try my damnedest –“

“Bollocks!” she shouts, interrupting his claim. “No, John – you don't. And you know what I mean. Please, _please_ don't sacrifice yourself for anyone. Don't run into burning buildings to save lives. You have a reason to live now, John. And it would be very fucking selfish of you to take away our daughter's privilege of having a father, just for the sake of someone else's life. For god's sake John – _please._ ”

He gulps. “I... I mean, I think – Yeah, you're right. You're absolutely, _bloody_ right.” He shakes his head, fuming. Mary can see the metaphorical smoke billowing out of his ears.

“Try your best, John – as always. I know I can't stop you. Just...” she pauses, letting a tear fall as she rests her hand on her bump. John can't help but suspect that she's being dramatic, but she seems genuine. “Just don't be a hero, love. It's not your responsibility – unless it means being a hero for our daughter's sake. Please?”

He gives her a sad smile and a single nod. “I will. Not for my sake, but for her – I'll do whatever I must.” His voice cracks on the last word.

Mary falls, crying, into John's strong, welcoming, forgiving embrace. “God, be safe. That git could walk straight into a minefield and you'd be right there behind him.”

He smiles and exhales a silent laugh. “I can neither confirm nor deny that claim.”

“I love you, you know. And I'll never stop telling you that, every day.” She pulls back, keeping their faces close together. “And I hope that some day, you'll find it in your big, loyal heart to believe me.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What have you found, Sherlock?”

Sherlock has been searching the cockpit for less than a few minutes before he finds what he's looking for, shouting a sound of discovery to alert Molly. She's just standing by right outside of the wreckage, feeling a bit light-headed from exertion. Things are fuzzy. She doesn't register Sherlock approaching her, saying, “I've reset the signal, Molly. Now it's just a matter of time before they locate us.” When she merely hums in response, Sherlock realizes that she's pushed herself too far.

In a flurry of images, Molly watches as Sherlock picks her up and begins walking back toward the shore. He sets her down on the sand before lying down himself, and he pulls her against him. Molly can feel the rise and fall of his chest, and when she finally speaks, she asks, “When did you tell John we'd be back?”

“Shh, Molly – rest. It's fine. I told him that we'd be back by noon. Sleep now. You need rest.”

“I'm... I'm just a bit _cold,_ ” she says mindlessly, and Sherlock turns onto his side to pull her further against him. Before she drifts off to sleep, Molly swears that she feels him plant a kiss atop her head, but she knows it that it must be wishful thinking.


	5. In Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, SO sorry that it took me so long to update! I have no excuses for you – this chapter has been sitting half-written on my computer for a while now. But I just recently went back and re-read my story and felt the need to see its end. As always, let me know what you think!

“...Yes, alright. Thank you for informing me so promptly.” Mycroft clears his throat, frowning as he holds the mobile to his ear. “Of course, yes. I'll handle it straight away.”

As he hangs up, his assistant voices her concern. “Mr Holmes?”

He huffs in annoyance and disappointment. “He's gotten himself in deep now, it seems.”

She smiles sadly. “What else is new?”

This pulls Mycroft out of his worried state. “I suppose you're right.” He pauses, thinking carefully. “Rescue mission, part two. We'll need a ship, a helicopter, and a team of trained emergency medical professionals.”

“I'll get right on it, sir.”

“I expect a car to be here in under thirty minutes.”

 

* * *

 

The sun hasn't yet risen by the time Molly and Sherlock return to their camp on the beach. It's eerily quiet; the beach is empty. Sherlock urges Molly to rest, and he promises to be right back.

“No. I'm going with you.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous, Dr Hooper. You need rest.”

“And we need to stick together. How do I know that you'll come back?”

He sighs, muttering, “ _Fine_.”

She pauses. “Really? Just like that?”

“Yes. Now come along before I change my mind.” As he turns in the direction of the treeline, Molly smiles to herself.

Minutes later, they find the rest of the group. Everyone is crowded in a circle around Sally, where John is attempting rescue breathing. Sherlock and Molly approach just as John looks to his watch and announces, “Time of death: 3:52 am, GMT.”

What follows is a long, stifling moment of complete and total silence.

 

* * *

 

John wakes in the middle of the night to the sight of Anderson bursting out of the treeline in a sprint, shouting unintelligible nonsense that John supposes is a sign of major distress. “John, John – _John!_ Oh shit, oh bloody buggering _hell. JOHN!”_

John sits up groggily, rubbing the sleep and the sand from his eyes. “What? What is it?”

“Sally – she's stopped breathing. Oh shit, oh god –“

John is on his feet in less than a second. The rest of the group slowly comes to, watching as John and Anderson run off into the woods together. They follow the pair shortly after realising what must be happening.

When John first lays eyes on Sally's battered body, he thinks of her as a corpse.

Anderson babbles, “I – I fell asleep, and I don't... I don't know _when_ she stopped breathing, but John – come on, John. You're a patient man. You live with _Sherlock Holmes_. You can fix this. I know you can.” John realizes that the pep talk is more for Anderson's personal assurance than for John's sake.

John sighs, rubbing his face, deciding on a course of action comprised of what little there is that he can do for her. Even if he gets her heart beating again, she will be permanently brain dead. She'd need to be given rescue breathing until the moment that help arrives, which is a feat greater than Anderson can fathom, John realises.

“There's little left that I can do for her.”

“Then you'd bloody well do whatever 'little' that you can and we'll hope for a miracle!”

John sighs. He gets to work quickly.

 

* * *

 

“He should have _been here_ by now,” Sherlock groans. “He's over 14 hours late!”

John shrugs. “You said it yourself – he's getting slow,” he notes. “But if I've learned one thing from being friends with you for so many years, it's that – when in trouble – you can always count on Mycroft to take care of things.”

“And isn't that a terrifying reality that we are forced to live in.”

 

* * *

 

 Later that morning, before dawn, all is silent. Anderson is still sitting in the woods with Sally's body, sobbing and shaking. John decides it best to leave him alone with her.

The rest of them lay on the beach, completely silent. No one is actually asleep – they all simply stare up at the untainted starry night sky and listen to the locusts in the trees. If they listen carefully, they can hear muffled sounds coming from the treeline. The sombre nature of the day leaves them all haunted by the echoes of Anderson's sobs.

Just a few hours after the sun goes down, Lestrade wakes with a gasp, whispering loudly to John (why he even bothers to whisper at all, John has no idea).

“It's a light! On the horizon! Oh god, finally! I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Thank _god,_ ” Sherlock groans dramatically.

Everyone is too distracted by their blinding hope and excitement to notice Molly slipping away from the group, off into the treeline.

Minutes later, after gathering his own personal effects, Sherlock turns to find Molly’s sleeping spot untouched, and more importantly, void of his pathologist. _Where on earth could she have gone?_ He follows her footprints in the sand to where she stands amongst the trees just inside the treeline.

“Molly, the rescue ship has arrived. They’re sending a helicopter soon.” She mutters something completely unintelligible in response, and he continues, sarcastically, “Forgive me, but there was a bit of an explosion yesterday and I’m having a bit of difficulty hearing you, so if you could just –“

“I… I don’t want to go yet,” she interjects, her voice strong on the first syllable, then increasingly meeker as she realises just how infantile she sounds.

Sherlock stares for several long moments, baffled (John and Mary call it his “buffering” face). “You’re delirious, Molly. Come now – you need proper treatment for your burns.” He reaches to her, and the force with which she flinches away from him says far more than words ever could.

“No, I…” she sniffles. She didn’t even realise she was crying. “What happens to us, when we go?”

“How do you mean, Molly?” Sherlock looks impatient. He figures that now is not the time to make jokes about the afterlife.

“You were never nice to me before this, this mess. I don’t want to go back to… how we _were._ How _you_ were.”

“I… I don’t think I understand.”

“As sick and as depraved as this may sound, I’ve rather _enjoyed_ spending time with you here. No matter how hurt I am, no matter how much pain I’m in – it’s nothing compared to how it feels to be _seen_ by you.”

_“But I see you a lot, Molly,”_ they both say in unison, him seriously and her mocking the fact that she could so easily predict his response.

He frowns. “I don’t think I understand.”

“I know, Sherlock. I know.”

“Then explain it to me. You have a particular talent for making things easier for me to understand.”

She sighs, not speaking for several moments, taking time to decide what exactly she wants to say to him. “I have so very many things to say.”

“Okay, abridged version, then. We can revisit your very many thoughts in their entirety when we aren’t waiting to be airlifted off of a deserted island.” He’s hoping the bluntness and the urgency of this statement will deter her hesitance or force her to speak quickly. She doesn’t fall for that tactic anymore. She bitterly remembers all of the times he has tried to take body parts from the morgue or has demanded her attention, always using the excuse: _“Hurry, Molly, lives are at stake!”_

She heaves one last solemn sigh before deciding that brevity would be best in this situation. “You know how I see you. My feelings for you, however deeply buried they may be, are not a secret. And I know how you view me. Quite simply, being “seen” is different from being “viewed.” The way one “views” a person – it’s entirely objective. Their life is a story – semantic data and nothing more. The way one “sees” a person – well, that’s far more complex. There’s no truly objective way to “see” a person, I suppose. I was always able to see you, and I think you know that. And up until recently, I’d accepted the fact that you only viewed me – viewed me as an asset and a friend and nothing more. But since the crash, I can’t explain it…” She pauses, frustrated with her own inability to articulate. “You’ve turned your focus toward me and really looked at me. You’ve cared – you’ve _seen_ me; or, at least, that is how it seems.”

“No, I err – I think you’re right,” he admits, almost reluctantly. “Though I think I’ve always tried very hard _not_ to “see” you, as it were – and yet a part of me always has. Not for lack of trying, I’m afraid,” he says, with a bitter smile on his face. “I think I’ve always been afraid to. Because I’ve witnessed what happens when one truly “sees” someone, with such devastating effect – such sentiment that it becomes blinding,” he says, obviously referring to her, and she mirrors his bitter smile. “But since our rescue mission, I can’t explain it either – I’m not afraid anymore. I think this situation has put it all into perspective for me – the crash, the injuries, Sally’s death – because I can’t really bother to care about avoiding sentiment when life can take a turn for the worst at any second and your life can hang in the balance and—” he stops himself abruptly (before he pours his entire heart out), pausing to take a calming breath. “And now, whether I like it or not, it seems, I _see_ you.”

She looks at him in shock, with her eyes big and bright, unblinking and unyielding. And then, he kisses her. Hard and full of meaning, he kisses her again and again, for several long moments – close-mouthed and tame, but full of passion. Sherlock Holmes is not one to express passion toward another human being unless they are a case waiting to be solved or a corpse on a slab in the morgue. For the life of her, Molly cannot imagine what about her prompted such an uncharacteristic reaction.

“Now stop it. Come along now,” he says, holding his hand out to her, like he hadn’t just made her dizzy by drawing out all of her long- and deeply-buried want and love for him. Like a diver rising to the surface too quickly, Molly feels a very unfamiliar bubbling sensation in her heart and her head is swimming; these are not the butterflies that he usually gives her – no, these are much stronger, much more violent as they are wrenched to the surface with an almost-magnetic force and are stirred up and reheated like leftovers in a microwave. Yet even so, there is no part of this unfamiliar feeling that Molly finds unpleasant in the slightest.

“ _Molly_ –“ he urges, pulling her out of her reverie, and finally, she takes his hand.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled to finish this story for a very long time. I think I just didn't want it to end. So here you are: shorter than the other chapters, but I hope it ties things up nicely.

They hold separate funerals for the pilot and for Donovan, naturally. After the incident, the pilot’s family came into a decent amount of money – enough to leave their awful London flat and buy a home in the Scottish countryside, where the pilot was born and subsequently, would be buried. If he cared about that sort of thing, Sherlock might find that sentiment poetic.

Donovan’s service lacks a certain religious element to it. Molly thinks that Sherlock might have liked it, had he even showed up. Even John made it, with his wife at home two days past her due date, “ready to pop,” as it were. But no one’s really seen Sherlock since they returned home a week ago.

At least, not until the gathering after the viewing. It’s held in a conference room at NSY, with loads of alcohol and food. Lestrade likens it to one of their run-of-the-mill retirement parties, sans the usual cake and small talk. Today, they sit in a sort of sombre, uncomfortable silence. Sherlock shows up, not bothering to make excuses about why he didn’t attend the funeral.

Once everyone’s had plenty to drink, people start getting up, one by one, to tell stories about Sergeant Donovan. And just when they think that everyone who wanted to has gotten a chance to speak, Sherlock gets up, and the room goes quiet; no one expects this to go very well.

He clears his throat. “Sergeant Sally Donovan was…” he pauses. “It’s no secret that Sergeant Donovan and I never really got along.” There’s a murmur permeating the room as spectators laugh uncomfortably. “But then again, I don’t really get along well with anyone – even those closest to me.”

“That’s quite an understatement, mate,” says a drunken Lestrade from his spot in the crowd.

Then, Sherlock does something unexpected: he laughs openly. To many, it’s rather unsettling. “I was trying to be delicate. But I digress. Had the accident never happened,” he says (while everyone has avoided mentioning the accident altogether), “I’d cut out my tongue before admitting this, but..” he pauses for effect, “but working alongside Sally challenged me to be a better consulting detective. And I think we can all say that she made us better at our jobs. She never stopped questioning the details of a case. She never stopped challenging authority, and she never lost sight of her true purpose: her pursuit of the truth. She pressured everyone around her to work harder, to be better. And aside from the frequent name-calling, I am loathe to say it: Sally was a good sergeant who had a very promising career. Today, Scotland Yard says goodbye to a tenacious, strong-willed sergeant. She will be sorely missed.” The crowd mimics Sherlock’s gesture as he raises his cup. “And god help the poor sod who has to fill her shoes. To Donovan.”

“To Donovan,” the crowd replies in unison.

 

* * *

  

Molly finds Sherlock outside smoking a cigarette just minutes following his impromptu eulogy. He doesn’t notice her presence – he’s got his thinking face on. Molly finds it endearing. “Great speech,” she says, startling him out of his trance.

He visibly jumps, obviously caught off guard. “ _Christ,_ Molly,” he says, almost breathlessly, his hand over his heart as if it’s the only thing holding it in place. After getting shot, Molly reckons that that might actually be the case. “I didn’t see you there.”

 _That’s a new one,_ she thinks. She meant to come out here and press him about why he’d retreated to the comfort of his flat upon returning home from their ordeal. But at this precise moment, she realizes that maybe, just maybe, he needed time alone to process. That his great, high-speed hard drive might have been clogged up with foul, sticky _emotions_ and he needed solitude.

“ _Well?_ ” he questions. “Did you have something to say or were you just trying to send me into cardiac arrest?”

She giggles in response. _But what do I say now?_ “I just wanted to see you is all.” She rests her back against the wall beside him. _The old Molly Hooper would never have been so bold. She might have muttered a ‘never mind’ and scolded him about his smoking habits before scuttling off back to the hole that she crawled out of, patiently awaiting the day when Sherlock would come to his wits and love her back._ Molly is happy to say that she isn’t that person anymore.

Unsurprisingly, the same exact train of thought runs through Sherlock’s head as well. Sherlock is happy to say that she isn’t that person anymore, too.

He squints at her, questioning her motives. “You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?” The look she gives him in response isn’t even confused – she’s used to this. Rather, it’s more of a _you-know-you’re-doing-that-thing_ face. He sighs, backing up his train of thought. “On your way out here. You were coming out to say something to me and you changed your mind. Why did you change your mind?”

She hesitates. “I changed my mind because I was wrong.”

He’s obviously taken aback by her answer. His eyebrows do a funny dance – first shooting up his forehead in shock, then shifting into a deep frown. He doesn’t have a reply for her, besides a half-hearted, “Huh.”

Molly waits for his Sherlock-ness to erupt into the conversation, but it never comes. A deduction, an insult, an unprompted subject-change – hell, even his characteristically strange, frenzied, Shakespeare-laced ranting would be better than this: this heavy, sinking reticence. It’s suffocating.

“Are… are you alright?”

“Why do you ask?”

“That’s not an answer, Sherlock.”

“Oh, don’t be so _dull,_ Molly,” he says, his distinctive _this-is-insufferably-tedious_ tone making an appearance.

“You see, _that_ —” she says, pointing a finger at him, “that is the most Sherlock I’ve seen since you got here.”

He frowns (a look that is quickly becoming part of his regular visage) “But I’ve… I’ve been here the whole time…”

“Oh, don’t be so _dull_ , Sherlock,” she says in a mocking tone, smirking at the look on his face as she turns his own words against him. “You’re not acting like yourself. I was—I _am_ concerned.”

He rolls his eyes at her like a petulant child, choosing the perfect time to toss his cigarette butt onto the ground and stomp it out – the quintessence of a tantrum at its finest. _Is this how Mycroft always feels? No wonder he’s got that umbrella shoved so far up his_ _—_

He starts walking away from her, down the street, hands in his coat pockets nonchalantly. She follows him, cursing his long, graceful strides. She eventually catches up to him, grabbing his upper arm to stop him and turn him around. “ _Stop_. Stop this,” she says, needing to pause to catch her breath. “What’s wrong with you?”

He just huffs this barking, bitter laugh. He takes a breath to speak, but she interjects.

“ _Don’t._ Don’t you dare. You’re going to stand there, with that bloody smug look on your face, and hurl derisive, acerbic comments at me in hopes that your… your _unkindness_ will stun me enough to make me leave you alone. I’d say that would make you an idiot, Sherlock Holmes – because you should know by now that I don’t scare so easily.” As she unloads on him, the sneer slowly fades from his face, leaving something blank and unhindered in its place. “You’re just… you think you’re clever, but you’re absolutely transparent,” she says sardonically, mimicking his bitter laughter.

And he just stands there. Buffering.

And she waits for him to catch up.

She wants to regret the unprompted lecture, at first; she’s not prone to angry outbursts, but in truth, this has been stewing within her for as long as she’s known him – for as long as she’s taken his abuse, for as long as she’s been his pathologist, and for as long as she’s been his friend, but he hasn’t been hers in return. She doesn’t feel malice, and she wasn’t really holding a grudge – but this was a long time coming for Sherlock Holmes. So yes, she wants to regret her outburst – but as the pause between them grows stale, she feels pride swelling within her.

And then, as Sherlock starts to return to the present moment, Molly says, “When you’ve decided to treat me like a person instead of a chess piece, you know where to find me. Cheers.”

And then, bearing her own smug, satisfied grin, Molly does the unthinkable: _she_ walks away from _him_.

 

* * *

  

Molly is not home for more than an hour before Sherlock shows up at her door. Through the peephole, he looks desperate, like he would if he needed to use her flat as a bolthole.

As soon as she opens the door (because she’ll _always_ open the door for him), Sherlock is storming into her flat, a scrambled, panicked look on his face.

“I know, Molly. Christ, I know – and I learned it a long time ago. You’re not a pawn, or a rook, or, or… But me, I’m playing the game, and you, you’re playing too, then, I suppose. And you’re on the losing side, but then that means that I am too, because – because it’s all _sentiment_ , Molly, as much as I loathe to admit it, it’s just—“

She steps into his personal space, smiling softly as she takes his face in her hands. “Sherlock, _Sherlock_ – stop. You can stop, now.”

“I really can’t, Molly.”

“If anyone can, you can. Just delete it.”

“But you’re cross with me.”

“I’m not; I never was. Okay – maybe I was at first, but I’m not anymore.” She pauses, biting her bottom lip as she tries to contain laughter. The look on his face is practically vacant, with an air of confusion about it. “Do I look cross, Sherlock?”

“No – but you sounded cross.”

“Past tense, Sherlock.”

“But I made you cross. _I_ did. And I think – perhaps, I’m sorry?”

She smiles at him, letting him know that he is forgiven. Not that there was ever much to forgive in the first place.

He still looks somewhat confused. “May I… May I kiss you again?”

He seems like a completely different person compared to the man who snogged her senseless on that beach the very first time – now he is timid, shy. _Who’s the mousy one now?_

Now, he kisses her slowly, gently. He places one hand on her cheek ever so softly, wrapping the other around her back as she leans up and wraps her arms around his shoulders. He’s hesitant, like she’ll shatter or scurry away if he’s even the slightest bit too abrasive. Molly muses that maybe it’s the environment that makes him act so differently – that makes her act so differently. Or maybe, they’ve just evolved as human beings: Sherlock becoming more like one and Molly finally realizing that she is one (and a _whole_ one, at that). But she doesn’t muse for very long. Because she’s absolutely, completely, and utterly swept up in Sherlock Holmes – as she always has been. That much hasn’t changed, and most certainly never will.

And as she is swept up in him, he is swept up in her – in her embrace, her love, her forgiveness (as he likely always has been; that much hasn’t changed, and most certainly never will).

The come together like this. Sweetly, softly, gently, intimately. It is everything that Sherlock has ever hoped it would be, and it is everything that Molly would never dare dream of. And even in Molly’s dim, poorly-lit flat, Sherlock truly endeavours to _see_ her.

 

* * *

 

  _I need both thumbs of an elderly man who has died of a heart attack. Do any of your corpses fit that criteria? – SH_

_Not presently, but I’ll add it to your list of oddly specific body part requests. xx MH_

_Any other interesting bodies in? – SH_

_Why, Mr Holmes, are you making idle conversation? ;) xx MH_

_That’s not even funny, Molly. – SH_

_I’m coming to Bart’s. No cases on, and John is “busy” with his “child.” – SH_

_Interesting use of quotations. See you soon, love. xx MH_

_Hey Mollz, just a head’s up: His Highness just stormed out after I wouldn’t let John out to play. Looks like he’s heading your way x_x Good luck! – Mary W_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, then thank you so, so much for seeing this story through to its end.
> 
> Any and all feedback is sincerely appreciated – whether it be comments, kudos, criticisms, or otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I am American, and this is neither beta'd nor brit pick'd. I take pride in my editorial abilities (and my British Auto-Correct).


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